Carry On, Warrior Read online

  #2.You must be sweeter to your husband so he is not afraid to tell you that your entire family reeks.

  Housekeeping and marriage are complicated.

  Initiation

  Craig models part-time, and a few years ago, Circuit City hired him for a national campaign. It seemed like his face was all over the country for months. One weekend, we took Chase to the mall and popped into Circuit City to check out flat screens. Chase proceeded to lose his little mind. There were posters of Craig covering the walls and life-size Craig figures standing in every corner. Chase ran around pointing and hugging the figures and screaming, “DADDY! DADDY!” EVERYONE in the store, employees and shoppers, stopped and stared at Chase, Craig, and the posters, utterly confused. It was weird. Not particularly fun, even. Just weird.

  We traveled to Ohio for New Year’s Eve that year, like we do every year. Tisha’s side of the family lives in Ohio, and my heart is there. Tisha has four sisters and two brothers. Collectively all these siblings made thirteen babies who became my first best friends. This loud, beautiful, closely knit, charmingly felonious crew was headed by Alice Flaherty and Bill Kishman, my grandma and grandpa. My grandpa was a gentle and wise surgeon who died twenty-five years ago. Alice is, quite literally, still kickin’. She is eighty-eight and remains the feistiest Irishwoman this side of Dublin. If you call her, she won’t answer because she’ll likely be in Vegas. Since she’ll be busy shooting craps, you’ll get her voice mail, which says, “I’m at the pub. Don’t bother me. I’ll call ya if I get back.”

  Over a half-century ago, she and my grandfather met at a bar near the hospital where he worked as a surgeon and she as a nurse. Alice was having a drink with her friends when Bill approached her shyly and said, “Excuse me, are you a nurse?” Alice looked at Bill, then down at her uniform and said, “No, Einstein. I’m a fireman.” It was love at first fight. They shared a beautiful forty-year marriage based on the unspoken rule that Alice was allowed to continue to be, well, Alice. Along with the Flaherty passion and fury seems to come a lack of common sense. Basically the members of my family find sense to be too “common” for us. We are above sense, really.

  One afternoon, Alice and my mother pulled into a parking garage and encountered a gate with a sign beside it that said, “Pull Up. Automatic Gate.” Alice threw her hands in the air and said, “Well, glory be to God. Why the hell would you have to PULL UP an automatic gate?” She had the car in park and was outside trying to lift the gate herself before my mother understood what was happening.

  Another time, Alice left for the mall—the mall that is five miles from her home, the mall that she’d been visiting regularly for forty years. A half an hour later, she pulled back into the driveway, and my uncle came out of the house to help her with her bags. She told him to scram, she’d come back because she’d gotten lost and she just needed to “start over.” From her house.

  That’s just how it is. There’s no need to argue or reason. Trying to reason with Alice proves nothing except that you’ve clearly not known her for long. It’s best just to sit down and let her make you laugh. Don’t try to fix a Flaherty. We do not think we’re broken. We’re thinking about more important things than how to navigate life gracefully. Alice and her descendants are soft places to land for folks who are wary of the self-help craze. My extended family is proof that there are plenty of folks who are just fine with the way they are, thank you very much. It’s a little scary. But mostly refreshing.

  • • •

  When I was growing up, Ohio was heaven to me. Most of Tisha’s sisters and brothers stayed in their home town to raise their families, and visiting them was the highlight of my childhood. The thirteen of us played all day in Grandma’s pool. Exhausted at sunset, we’d dry off, eat pizza, and plan our sleepover. Our sleepovers never involved sleep. Caren and I were the oldest cousins. Caren was my hero. I thought she was the prettiest girl on the planet (she is). She and I would stay up until we saw the streetlights go out. Then, as the sun rose, we would sneak into the kitchen and pour thirteen bowls of Rice Krispies with mounds of sugar on top. I’m certain that my desire for a large family (and perhaps my sugar addiction) originated in my grandmother’s kitchen, pouring Rice Krispies with Caren.

  Caren’s mom is my aunt Judy. Judy, like Alice, is what they call, Something Else. If Judy likes you, you’ve got it made. If she doesn’t like you, you’d best be on your way. One more thing: if you’re hungry, Judy’s not your best bet. The Flaherty/Kishman gene that renders us useless at following directions obviously extends to recipes. No one in my family can cook. No one, and there are a lot of us.

  One day, when Caren was a child, Judy decided to “make a cake.” Before this day, Judy had never even decided to “make a sandwich.” In fact, before this day, Judy had never even made a purchase at the grocery store. One might be tempted to assume that I am exaggerating. I am not. Grocery stores stress Judy out, and the women in our family try to make decisions that will keep us as calm as Irishly possible. But on this day, Judy was determined. Caren, who was ten years old, was to be her assistant. Poor Caren was terrified.

  The cake Judy was determined to make was of the JELL-O No-Bake variety. So really, she was making, not baking, this cake. Judy poured the milk and the JELL-O powder into the crust and then picked up the box to read the next direction. She recited the following to Caren: “Step Three. Cover and tape the cake on the counter.” Judy looked down at Caren’s huge brown eyes, which were twitching in anticipation of impending calamity.

  “Well, why are you just standing there? Go FIND SOME TAPE!”

  Caren scurried away and ransacked the house. No tape.

  Fearfully, she returned to Judy and said, “Mommy, I can’t find any tape.”

  Judy said, “WELL. THEN. Go to Gramma’s house and get some tape from her! HOW THE HELL IS ANYBODY SUPPOSED TO BAKE AROUND HERE WITH NO TAPE? GO!”

  So Caren ran down the street, burst into my grandmother’s house, and breathlessly demanded tape. My grandma asked her why she needed tape. Caren said, “We’re trying to make a cake!” And my grandma said, “Oh. All right then, it’s in the office.” Because, you see, my grandmother has never made a cake in her life either and wouldn’t have the slightest idea that tape is an unusual ingredient. So Caren grabbed the masking tape, ran all the way home, burst through the door, and yelled to her mom, “Mommy, I got the tape!” Judy called her over to the counter and told her to start taping. Judy and Caren used an entire roll of masking tape securing that cake to the counter.

  When it was completely covered and secured beyond a shadow of a doubt, Judy picked up the box and read to Caren: “Step Four: Place cake in freezer.”

  Judy and Caren stared at the cake that they had just spent fifteen minutes taping to the counter.

  Then Judy started using some very special language. Caren remembers that the tirade included loud requests for intersession from Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. At this point Caren picked up the cake directions with trembling hands, in hopes of finding a clue. After a moment and several silent prayers, Caren said in a teeny-weeny voice, “Mommy? Step three says cover and TAP the cake on the counter.”

  • • •

  It’s important to note these things because genetics are crucial. We cannot escape them. Which is what I told my friend Carrie when she found me trying to preheat her oven with a hair dryer. Preheat. Heat before. Totally logical, when you think about it. Actually, don’t really think about it. Moving right along.

  The point of all of this is that these are the people with whom we ring in every New Year. Each December, our entire extended family makes the pilgrimage to Uncle Keith and Aunt Stephanie’s house in Ohio. Everyone comes. The thirteen of us have become thirty-four of us, including spouses and babies and fiancées and significant others. Our family New Year’s Eve party is our touchstone—the one constant that we know, no matter what happens during the year, will be there waiting for
us. There may be more of us or fewer of us, and our hearts might be fuller or emptier due to the year’s happenings, but we will be there. Our family show will go on. Even the year that time stopped—the year Caren, Frankie, and Ali’s daddy, Judy’s husband, our Uncle Frank, died—we were there. We all cried as that reliable and relentless ball dropped, but we were there. What else is family if not a commitment to keep showing up?

  Unfortunately, Craig and I couldn’t make the New Year’s trip in 2003 because I was nine months pregnant with Chase. So when we pulled up to Keith’s house on December 31, 2004, it was the first time my little family was to meet my big family. I was busting with excitement. Craig was excited too, in a nervous sort of way. He’d heard the stories. Also, he was worried about what he’d eat. As we pulled up closer to Keith’s house, we were startled by the strange, humongous statue spotlighted in the front yard. It was Craig—a ten-foot, three-dimensional tower made up of Craig’s head. The tower was tied down with ropes and driven into the ground with wooden stakes and surrounded by five floodlights. Craig’s face was as big and bright as the moon.

  Craig shrank into his seat. I thought he might not get out. I told him the worst part was over; he just had to make it into the house and keep smiling. But I was wrong. So very wrong. When we walked into Keith’s house, it became painfully obvious that Keith had ransacked his local Circuit City. Craig was everywhere. There were life-sized cutouts by the food table and blowups of his face above the sink. Craig’s head peeked out from behind every toilet. There was nowhere to go to get away from Craig’s face. There were more Craigs at the party than there were guests. It was absolutely phenomenal.

  The best was yet to come. On New Year’s Day, Keith woke Craig up at the crack of dawn and said that he needed help with an errand. Then he made Craig drive to the Cleveland Circuit City with him, walk into the store, holding all the life-size cutouts of himself, and return them. Keith had made a deal with the owner that he’d bring the Craig paraphernalia and the Craig back to return the signage. When they walked in the store, Uncle Keith tapped the poor teenage girl behind the counter, yanked Craig’s hat off (which was pulled down close to his chin), and said, “HEY! DO YOU RECOGNIZE THIS GUY? DO YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?”

  The embarrassed girl’s eyes widened and she said quietly that Yes, she knew who he was. She’d been staring at his face for months. Everyone was awkwarded into silence. Except for Keith. Keith was thrilled. Keith was beaming. Keith had been orchestrating this weird, thrilling moment for weeks, and here he stood, victorious.

  These are the sorts of schemes and pranks that the men in my family have to execute or endure to counterbalance the Flaherty/Kishman insanity. To distract themselves from the female drama, they create their own. And Craig endured. He even laughed. Now he’s one of Keith’s best accomplices. Today Craig would tell you that Uncle Keith is on his list of Top Ten Favorite People in the World.

  That’s the thing about becoming a family: you gotta melt. You have to keep melting into each other until you become something entirely new. The only constant family rule is that everyone has to keep showing up.

  On Weaving and Repentance

  Repentance is a fancy word used often in Christian circles. I don’t use fancy religious words, because I don’t think they explain themselves well. Also, fancy language tends to make in people feel more in and out people feel more out, and I don’t think that’s how words are best used. Words are best used to describe specific feelings, ideas, and hearts as clearly as possible—to make the speaker and the listener, or the writer and the reader, feel less alone and more hopeful.

  I used to be annoyed and threatened by the word repentance, until I figured out what it really means to me. Repentance is the magical moment when a sliver of light finds its way into a place of darkness in my heart, and I’m able to see clearly how my jerkiness is keeping me from peace and joy in a specific area of my life.

  Maya Angelou shined a light into the dark part of my heart where I keep my relationship with my mother-in-law. In her book, Letter to My Daughter, Angelou writes about a dinner party she attended during her first trip to Senegal at the home of a very rich and sophisticated friend. As Angelou explored the decadent home and observed the elegant guests, she noted that they were all carefully stepping around the beautiful, expensive rug in the middle of the floor to avoid dirtying it. She became appalled that her hostess would be so shallow as to value her things above her guests’ comfort. Angelou decided to act; she stepped onto the rug and walked back and forth several times. The guests, who were “bunched up on the sidelines, smiled at her weakly.” Angelou smiled back, proud that through her boldness they might also be “encouraged to admit that rugs were to be walked on.”

  She then joined the guests on the sidelines, her head held high. She had done what was right.

  A few minutes later, the servants came out and quietly removed the rug from the floor, replacing it with an equally extravagant one. They then proceeded to carefully place the plates, glasses, wine, and bowls of rice and chicken on the new rug. Angelou’s hostess clapped her hands and announced joyfully that they were serving Senegal’s most beloved meal “for our Sister from America, Maya Angelou.” She then asked all the guests to sit. Angelou’s face burned.

  She had dragged her dirty shoes all over her gracious hostess’s tablecloth. Angelou concluded her story with this: “In an unfamiliar culture, it is wise to offer no innovations, no suggestions or lessons. The epitome of sophistication is utter simplicity.”

  • • •

  When Craig and I were first married, I experienced his family as an unfamiliar culture. Communication was different, celebrations were different, mealtimes were different, and expressions of love were different. I found this to be unacceptable. To me, different meant wrong. I became offended and perpetually suspicious. In a million subtle and not-so-subtle ways, I tried to change my in-laws. I suggested new traditions. I offered advice. I found fault with their personalities and marriage and their relationships with their children and grandchildren. I dragged my dirty shoes all over my mother-in-law’s tablecloth. The one she’d spent decades carefully weaving.

  I imagine my refusal to accept my mother-in-law hurt her deeply, but she gave Craig and me time and space to work it out on our own. She bowed out. That must have been a hard decision, one I pray I never have to make with my own son. I pray that my future daughter-in-law will be wiser and kinder than I from the start. She probably won’t be, though. She’ll probably be just like me. She’ll want to create her own weaving pattern, which might mean that she’ll need to walk all over mine for a while.

  As a young mother and wife, establishing a pattern that suited me was difficult. Learning to weave required all of my attention. I needed time and space to establish my own rhythm and style, and perhaps my rejection of the old patterns was necessary to the discovery of my own.

  True repentance is messy, and it takes time, but that sliver of light is worth waiting for. And when it’s real, it sticks. Thank you, Ms. Angelou, for leading me to repentance.

  • • •

  I’m not big on advice, mainly because most days I learn what an idiot I was yesterday. This is hopeful, because it means I’m moving in the right direction. But it also makes it risky to offer wisdom today. Even so, I feel safe suggesting this:

  Mothers-in-law, enjoy watching your daughter-in-law learn to weave. When she makes a mistake, when she drops a stitch, allow her to notice it on her own. Tell her often how beautiful her pattern is. Be kinder than necessary. Bring her some tea. Be simple. Be sophisticated.

  And daughters-in-law, notice the beauty of the rug that your mother-in-law spent a lifetime weaving. Remember that her pattern is mostly firmly established—no need to suggest improvements. Be kinder than necessary, being mindful that the piece of art it took her a lifetime to weave—her masterpiece—she gave to you, to keep you warm at night. One day you’ll give your masterp
iece away too. Be simple. Be sophisticated.

  Sucker—On Vacuuming

  A while ago, Craig came home with a new vacuum. An unsolicited new vacuum.

  Like cooking, I consider vacuuming to be something that show-offy people do. And also people who are not quite as deep and sentimental as I am.

  The floors in my home read like a history of our family. In that corner, you might find Cheerios from a special playdate last month, and under that rug you’ll find glitter from last Thanksgiving’s craft. It’s lovely, really. Since I am incapable of ordering pictures or assembling family photo albums, Craig and I sit on the couch in the evenings, gazing from pile of floor crap to pile of floor crap, reminiscing. We find these moments to be quite special. But if you are the vacuuming type, I don’t want you to feel guilty. I’m just suggesting that kids grow up fast, so you might want to consider setting aside some floor memories.

  Several years ago, I started suspecting that my friends had different beliefs about vacuuming and memory keeping. It seemed they were opposed to using floors as scrapbooks, because their carpets always had those fancy lines in them. You know, those fresh, prideful, “I just vacuumed” lines? I began to feel a little uncomfortable about my unliney carpets. Now, one might predict that this discomfort would lead me to reevaluate my vacuuming boycott, but one might predict wrong. I find my vacuum to be very heavy and ugly and not at all conducive to relaxing. There is nothing that leads me into a cursing tirade faster than trying to lug my vacuum up two flights of stairs. And Jesus said, If your vacuum causes you to curse, gouge it out, or something like that. So actually becoming a real-life vacuumer wasn’t an option, since I love Jesus. If you do vacuum, I’m not trying to suggest that you don’t love Jesus. I assume it’s possible to do both. I’m just saying it’s not likely. Not likely at all.

  In any case, it was becoming clear that I needed to start thinking creatively about this vacuuming issue.